Notes:
I figure I should give you guys a bit of explanation to go with this chapter. It's a long one (I think) and it deals with the wrapping up of everything. My original plan was to just skip all of the legal proceedings and just have the case dropped, but then I realised that that would probably feel kind of cheap and all. Then, I thought about writing the court case and it was going to be this massive hoo-ha with testimonies and the prosecution nearly destroying Blaine on the stand, but that just seemed too… slapstick, I guess? Like the prosecution people were just caricatures, dumb enough to try and misinterpret all these events to make Blaine the bad guy. Then, it struck me that I didn't need to do this. Because the prosecution here aren't going to be dumb. So, here you go: how it all ends, the final edition.
Chapter Five
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth
Samuel Gladys has two main thoughts when he sees the newspaper article declaring that the 'encounter' between Henry Canterbury and his jail-bait drunken misadventure wasn't consensual: first that he wished Canterbury Jr good luck trying to prove that in a court of law, and second that he pitied the poor sucker who had to try and make those charges stick.
Then he gets the call telling him it's his case.
And he briefly considers throwing himself off a bridge to get out of it.
The further into the case files he gets, the more that Samuel realises that this is all pretty futile. The physical evidence of assault is minimal, those pictures in the paper don't prove jack shit, and let's ask ourselves for one minute now what kill-rip-tear-burn-the-gays Marcus Canterbury's son was doing at a gay bar in Ohio, anyway?On top of all that there's the fact that Blaine Anderson – the accused – is a fucking angel on earth. Samuel has to try and prove beyond a reasonable doubt that a kind, conscientious, show-tunes-loving, helps-old-ladies-cross-streets fucking honour student somehow had it in his tiny, twig-like frame to corner and assault a twenty-something year old man, whilst probably drunk enough he couldn't walk, let alone prey on unsuspecting men of dubious heterosexuality.
But Samuel is good at his job.
So, little by little, bit by bit, he builds his case.
It's the type of case that's ridiculously frustrating to push past each milestone with. For every student at Dalton – Anderson's school – that swears up and down that the kid is unstable, messed-up and one-hundred per cent capable of sexual assault, there are nearly fifteen who put their hands on their hearts and say the opposite.
Samuel likes to think that he's getting a pretty good idea of the type of person that Blaine Anderson is.
And then, the turning point in the case comes around.
It's late on a Thursday night and he has one of the wannabe big-shots in his team trawling through the plethora of records they have on Blaine Anderson when they spot it. There, out in the open – and he has no idea how on earth they missed this the first time around – is a note on his permanent record. Anderson didn't leave his old high school – North Westerville High – mid-year willingly. He was expelled.
For a 'violent altercation outside a school dance' nonetheless.
There's a gap of a few months between his expulsion and his enrolment and Samuel guesses that that period was probably filled with Anderson's father striving to get the kid accepted into Dalton with an expulsion on his record.
Now that they know where and how to look, a lot of other stuff begins to come into play. Samuel's still waiting on the incident report from his contact down at the police station – and yes, it's severe enough that there is an incident report – but they've found a whole raft of things that don't just crack at Anderson's perfect exterior, they destroy it.
He saw a therapist for his first two terms at Dalton – unstable.
He started boxing and kept at it for a year after that – strong.
Halfway through his first week at Dalton, his roommate requested a transfer to a different room because Anderson broke his nose – violent.
For the first time since he started on the case, Samuel actually thinks that they might be able to nail Anderson.
And then the next call comes in.
It's not from Samuel's boss; it's from Samuel's boss's boss's boss. Michael Smythe, the State's Attorney – pretty much the one guy who can tell a bunch of too-smart-for-their-own-good lawyers what to do and get away with it.
And he tells them to make a deal.
Samuel's first reaction is even more frustration – and he might need to get his blood pressure checked at the end of this; there's no way any of this mess can be good for his health – because he was just starting to make headway in the case. His second is one of rampant curiosity.
Why should they deal? There's only really one reason why people ever want to strike deals, and that's because the court case is going to be ugly and expensive, so they want to reach an agreement without letting something go to court.
He finds the answer on Twitter.
Sebastian Smythe (SebbieDoesDallas)
Thanks for a fun night out BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]
Ignoring the fact that the Twitter handle ' SebbieDoesDallas' is really rather distasteful, Samuel can read between the lines. Sebastian Smythe – his boss's boss's boss's son – was there at the club on the night. And he's likely to be a key witness in the case.
For once, keeping a case out of the courts isn't about money. It's about family.
Samuel Gladys thinks of his wife and his barely past infanthood son, and realises that he can get behind that. It's not really how the law works, or how it should work, but Samuel isn't going to go against his boss's boss's boss just so he can drag the guy's kid through the mud in court.
So, he settles down and drafts a plea deal.
Three days later, the plea deal gets shoved back down his throat, and Samuel wishes he could say that he's surprised.
Samuel sighs and re-opens his case file.
A few more days pass and his buddy down at the police station comes through with the incident report. He hands it over with a shake of his head. "You don't want to know what I had to go through in order to get that," Charlie states, shaking his head.
"I'll buy you a bottle of Tequila," Samuel tells him easily, accepting the file.
"You'll buy me a crate," Charlie corrects. "I don't know what shit is going on that you need that file, Sam, but I don't want any more part of it."
Samuel whistles, leaning back in his chair. "That bad, huh?" he asks.
"You know how we used to joke about being so tangled in red-tape, it would have been more efficient just to use paper?" Charlie asks. "That thing was buried. Deliberately."
"You read it?" Samuel questions, mostly out of curiosity.
Charlie snorts, turning to leave. "Fuck no," he declares. "I'm staying out of whatever mess you're involved in now."
Samuel shrugs and Charlie shakes his head once more, like he can't believe what he does for their friendship, before he leaves. Lips pursed, Samuel looks down at the incident report.
What could a fight outside a high school dance be doing so fiercely buried? Resisting the urge to stop digging has always been a weak point of Samuel's, so he flips it open and starts to read.
TWO OHIOAN TEENAGERS BEATEN TO A PULP OUTSIDE SCHOOL DANCE
On Friday 17th February, two students at North Westerville High School were cornered outside a school dance and beaten to the point of near death. According to their classmates, the two teenagers were likely singled out because of the fact that they had chosen to go to the dance together and are both openly gay. The two students were admitted to hospital at 9:30 pm on the night and have yet to wake. Dr Mathias of St Ann's Hospital told the press that they are both stable, but it remains to be seen if either of them will awake any time soon.
Representatives of North Westerville High School refused to comment on the events…
(read more)
The names of any of the kids involved are never once mentioned in the report, but Samuel still manages to get the general gist. Two students at Westerville High School – both barely fourteen at the time – got the shit beaten out of them outside a school dance by a group of older students with baseball bats.
A violent altercation outside a school dance.
Samuel feels like he's going to be sick.
They offered a plea deal to this sick fuck. They offered him eight fucking months in minimum security. They were prepared to let him go with a slap on the wrist. Blaine Anderson most definitely had it in him to corner a guy outside a club and sexually assault him, because guess the fuck what? He's done it—
Blaine Devon Anderson would have been fourteen at the time of the 'violent altercation outside a school dance'.
The attackers were older.
Students A and B both spent long periods of time in hospital, recovering from extensive injuries, in Student A's case, including a leg, a punctured lung, and a shattered hand – caused after his attackers stamped down on his hand to prevent him from calling 911.
There's a gap in Anderson's school records between his expulsion and his enrolment at Dalton Academy.
Blaine Anderson? Yeah, I shared a room with him a while back. He didn't really board at Dalton for long though. His parents pulled him out of boarding when he broke my nose and I requested to be moved to a different room.
Blaine Anderson punched his roomie in the nose and all the kid did was request to be moved to a different room.
Blaine and I ran the boxing club together for a while. He was kind of intense about it, but then he got involved with the Warblers and didn't really have enough time to run it with me. He still drops by sometimes, I guess, when things all get a bit too much.
He started boxing – was obsessive about it.
Blaine's not that sort of guy, Mr Gladys. Anyone at Dalton can tell you as much. So you'll forgive me if I cry 'scapegoat' here.
Kind. Conscientious. Saw a therapist. Started Boxing. Well-liked. Honour student.
Samuel Gladys thinks of his tiny, precious son, and this time, is actually sick.
He cleans himself up and stares his face down in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes he wonders how he can keep doing this, following through on cases to the point where he almost throws innocents under the bus to keep his job.
Because all those months ago, when Samuel started work on the case, he never once thought for a second of following through on the fact that Blaine Anderson could be innocent. He feels used, like a weapon, just given coordinates and told to fire, and feels stupid, because he's smart – Harvard law school levels of smart – and he let himself be so convinced of this fact that he missed the simplest explanation for why Blaine Anderson would be hard to convict.
Because out of all of this, there's really only one victim.
And it's not Henry Canterbury.
This is what he does, though. He pushes through his mistakes and pulls himself up from them, because despite all of the stupidity, Samuel Gladys is good at his job.
So, Samuel looks at his reflection in the mirror one last time, before he pulls himself up and begins to plan.
Unknown Number:
Blaine, please. Call me back. I can explain.
It's frustrating, when you've just spent months of your life trying to prove that a kid is the worst person to walk this earth, to try and prove that they're the best. Oh, don't get Samuel wrong, a lot of things start to make more sense when he comes at it from this angle, and he gets a lot less headaches this way, but it's slightly disheartening to realise that all your hours of work were pretty much useless.
Samuel is startled out of his work by the sound of his phone ringing. He practically dives across his desk to answer it, desperate for a distraction.
"Samuel Gladys, DA's office," he answers smoothly.
A voice sounds down the line, silky and smug – the type that speaks of a volatile mix of confidence and arrogance. "Is this who I'm supposed to speak to in order to make a statement about the Henry Canterbury case?"
Samuel sighs, leaning back in his chair. It's been a long day. "Yeah," he says. "You got a name?"
"Sebastian Smythe."
"Good afternoon," Samuel says, a relaxed smile on his face as he walks into Henry Canterbury's office. He closes the door behind himself.
Henry returns the smile with ease. "Good afternoon to you too, Mr Gladys," he replies. "What can I do for you today?"
Samuel's smile takes on a slightly sinister edge as he drops a file down on Henry's desk. Henry's eyebrows pinch together as he looks down at it.
"What's this?" he asks.
"That?" Samuel asks, tone falsely light. "Quite possibly the biggest case for obstruction of justice I've seen in a long time."
At Henry's confused look, Samuel elaborates. It's all there in that file, he tells him: the guy who he contacted to ask how to make a bruise look like it was the product of sexual assault, the photographer from the parking lot who was paid to say it didn't look consensual, and Sebastian Smythe – yeah, he likes to party hard, but he has a hell of a lot of weight to his name – who came forward to say he saw it go down in the parking lot and if that encounter wasn't consensual, then he's the heir to the throne of England.
By the end of it, Henry's countenance is a ghostly white.
"I just want to know why," Samuel says. "Why'd you do it?"
Henry shakes his head. "Why do you think?" he asks bitterly.
Something twists within Samuel's gut, because he had a part in this. He had a leading role in all of this.
"You're an adult, Mr Canterbury," Samuel tells him. "You need to learn that choices have consequences, and they don't just affect you. They affect people around you too. People like Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson – the conscientious, kind, show-tunes loving, old-ladies-stranded-across-busy-roads-helping honour student – who has had his entire future ripped out from his hands because you have daddy issues."
And then, because he can, because he wants to see the disgust he feels written all over Henry Canterbury's face as well, Samuel drops the incident report from the gay-bashing incident outside North Westerville High's Sadie Hawkins Dance in front of Henry's face.
"Well, guess, what?" Samuel goes on. "You're not the first to try."
Samuel lets it settle in for a while. "You have a choice, Mr Canterbury," he informs him softly. "You can either do the right thing, or you can do nothing. Either way, you're not going to be remembered well."
Samuel turns and leaves.
OK, so, yeah, what he's done would probably be seen as skating around blackmail by a jury, but he doesn't care. After spending so many months of his life sticking his neck out to try and have Blaine Anderson lynched, for once, Samuel thinks it's about time someone on the right side – on their side – started to fight for him.
Blaine finds out that they're dropping the charges against him due to lack of evidence just two weeks after he turns down the plea deal.
Penelope calls to tell him the good news just hours after it's confirmed, but she's quick to inform him that he's not out of the news cycle yet. To a lot of people, this isn't a not-guilty; it's a not-guilty-today. It's not like people will change their views of him overnight, she tells him, so for both of their sakes, it's probably best if he sticks to the three cardinal rules.
It feels kind of anticlimactic.
Shaking his head at it all, Blaine wonders if it speaks of how messed up this has made him that he feels almost cheated by this.
His therapist – who he hasn't seen in a long while now – would probably tell him that it's perfectly natural for his emotions to be rioting right now. He can feel it all at once – angry that they get to push him so far and give up, because it was a mistake; glad that he never took the plea deal; resentful of their mistakes – but mostly, mostly, Blaine just wants to sleep.
It's all he's really wanted to do for a long time: go to sleep and pray that it will all be okay when he wakes up.
So he does.
He ignores his parents when they ask him what the phone call was about – their first contact with him that week – and traipses up to his room. He drops into bed, bones aching and brain foggy, and lets sleep take him.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
Hey, heard the good news! Is it weird if I say congratulations?
When the story hits news circulation, the first contact any of his friends or acquaintances initiate comes from Kurt. Blaine smiles down at his phone. No, he taps out, it's not weird. Thanks, though.
Kurt's reply buzzes in barely seconds later.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
So, how does it feel to be a free man, Blaine?
Blaine manages a full smile. He types out one last text before he puts his phone away for the drive to school.
Blaine:
It feels pretty great, thanks Kurt.
Wes:
Just saw the news, Blaine, and thought I'd drop you a text to let you know how happy I am for you. I believed in you right from the start, okay? Lots of purely platonic and manly hugs and kisses –Wes
Nick:
dude just saw the stry on the web. congratulations!
David:
Wes just woke me up to tell me the fantastic news. I'm so happy for you, man!
JEFF!:
FREEDOM, BLAINE! CONGRATS! This calls for celebrations! Minus the alcohol, though, seeing as that's kind of how you got into this whole mess in the first place, but still! CONGRATULATIONS, DUDE!
Unknown Number:
Blaine, it's Sebastian. Look, B, I'm so sorry about what happened. I didn't think and I just – I didn't think. Heard they dropped the charges, though, so congrats on that. I'm still really, really sorry though. Please, just call me back, okay?
Trent:
Congratulations, man. I knew that you couldn't have done any of that stuff. You're welcome back to the Warblers whenever, so drop me a line if you want to come back.
David:
Wait, Blaine, I just realised: you're going to have the BEST essay ever to write for your college applications! Like, talk about overcoming personal hardship of shit-tastic levels. See you at school, Blaine.
And just like that, things change.
Some things get better. Others don't.
For one, the Warblers are speaking to Blaine again now, even if Blaine still hasn't reclaimed his position as lead soloist. Thad personally apologises for essentially strong-arming everyone else into kicking Blaine out, but Blaine, as always, laughs him off and tells him not to sweat it. Thad grins, like he was expecting that response, and for a second, Blaine wonders if he's being too forgiving. The last thing he wants to do is give the impression to Thad that he's had it easy these past few months, but before Blaine can say anything, Thad slaps him cheerfully on the back and cuts the conversation short by leaving.
For two, Blaine's around ninety per-cent certain that the maybe-more-than-just-a-crush he has on Kurt is one-hundred per cent reciprocated and totally worth acting on. He's not going to do anything, though, because no matter what Wes says, ten per cent of anything is a significant portion, and the friendship thing they have going for them is pretty amazing.
It's stopped being about Blaine using Kurt to work through his issues and started being about enjoying each other's' company. Kurt's sharp and different in a way that Blaine has never met before. Perceptive. Witty. Sometimes a bit mean. He couldn't give two shits about decorum, as well, and given Blaine's own experience with that particular part of the Dalton Honour Code, that's a plus in his book.
Actually, yeah. Kurt's pretty much the single best thing about it all coming to a close.
For three, Blaine finally calls Sebastian back. It feels like a mistake at the time, but they talk and it makes things slightly better. They're not friends, and after Blaine finds out that it was Sebastian's coming forward as a witness that made them drop the case, there are more than a few accusations of lying to try and win back their friendship, at least until Sebastian practically screams that he'd never do that, because of his father and his father's job and the fact that he has too much to lose. They're not friends, but Blaine doesn't push Sebastian away anymore, and the relationship feels like it's on the mend.
For four, Cooper is back in the country. He lands back in LA a few days after the story hits the news and the first thing he does is send a long string of panicked texts to Blaine. He's pissed that Blaine didn't call, but says he understands. But, Cooper is, no matter what, always, always – as he passionately declares down the phone to Blaine – ready to go to war on his little brother's behalf.
It's sweet and, as Blaine glances across the living room at the stony faces of his parents, just what he needs to hear.
Blaine's still not sure of so much, like his future, or how he's going to pay for college now that his parents are talking about cutting him off, or how this next year's going to go, but he thinks maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to manage.
Then there are the things that aren't so great.
At Dalton, Blaine's still an outcast.
It's not as bad anymore, and the notes and offensive graffiti have stopped, but there's still some sort of stigma attached to Blaine. Crowded hallways still part like the red sea for Blaine. Conversation still stops every time Blaine enters a room. Blaine still eats lunch alone when Wes, David, Nick and Jeff can't make it.
And, Headmaster Vandemeer makes clear, he's still not welcome back next year.
After he gets out of that particular one-on-one with the headmaster, Blaine doesn't know how to feel. It may have its faults – being full of pretentious assholes seems to be one of them, unfortunately – but Dalton is still his home. It's where he learned and grew. It's the place that shaped him into the person he is today.
He remembers his first term at Dalton, when he and his father were fighting, and just breathing seemed to hurt his ribs. He remembers Wes and David worming their way into his heart, followed by an enthusiastic and tactless Jeff and his best friend, Nick. He remembers turning up, soaked through to the skin, on the doorstep of Wes' dorm room, because he needed a place to sleep that night, and it was the only place he could think of.
Dalton is so, so many things to Blaine.
A safe haven.
It's always been a safe haven.
It will always be a safe haven. Just—
Not for Blaine. Not anymore.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
Hey, Blaine. Sorry I missed your call – I was meeting with the guidance counsellor. Do you need something?
Blaine:
It's fine, don't worry, Kurt.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
You can't see me right now, but I'm raising my eyebrows incredulously.
Blaine:
It's nothing, Kurt. Seriously. Don't worry.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
Don't lie to me, Blaine.
Blaine:
Not lying, Kurt.
The Fabulous Kurt Hummel:
Fine. Open your front door.
Blaine flings open his front door barely seconds after receiving the text, and, yeah, Kurt was right – it's really not nothing.
After filing into Blaine's house and trudging up the stairs to Blaine's room, Kurt throws himself back on his bed. "So," he says, rolling over to face Blaine. "You wanna let me in on why you decided to call me in the middle of what I know was your chemistry lesson?"
Blaine sighs and sinks into the mattress beside Kurt. He fits easily there nestled into the other teen's side. "I," Blaine starts, "I wasn't in chemistry. The headmaster called me into his office for another chat."
Kurt can feel Blaine drumming his fingers against his leg, the tiny vibrations reverberating up through his spine. "Did he want to apologise, or something?" Kurt asks.
"No," Blaine exhales. "He, uh, just wanted to let me know that I wouldn't really be, uh, welcome at Dalton next year."
Kurt sits up, pursing his lips into a thin, white line. He knows his silence is probably not the most reassuring answer he can give Blaine right now, but it's better than the other choice things he's thinking about saying.
Kurt's been through utter shit this year, and he's not trying to hide it from anyone any more. Despite the fact that his black eye has long since faded, Kurt knows that he has issues left over from the Karofsky Debacle – issues that he's sort of been projecting onto Blaine – but their friendship is more than the sum of their problems.
They're friends. Maybe more. Hopefully something more. Okay, definitely something more.
Kurt takes a deep breath, calming himself down before he speaks to Blaine. "Oh, Blaine," he says in what he hopes is a sympathetic tone, wrapping his arms around the shorter teenager.
"It sucks," comes Blaine's earnest reply.
"Yeah."
And then Kurt freezes, realising where he is.
He's barely inches away from Blaine's face, their noses ghosting against each other, gazes locked, breaths mingling.
Screw it all, he thinks, and closes his eyes, and takes a leap.
Blaine tastes like peppermint.
Kurt tastes like—
Blaine doesn't care. He just wraps his arms around Kurt's neck and loses himself in the kiss.
This kiss isn't worth the crap he went through to get it, but it doesn't feel anticlimactic. It feels important, treasured and safe.
Blaine breaks the kiss with a smile, but doesn't let Kurt go. "Just checking," he breathes into Kurt's ear, "because this has gotten me into some trouble before. This is consensual, right?"
Blaine can feel Kurt smiling against his cheek. "So, so consensual," Kurt tells him.
"Good."
And then he kisses Kurt again.
Because he can.